Three Years Later
by Katelyn Isilhin
Summary: This is a one-shot Post-Reichenbach return fic. It was mainly based on reconciling the moment in ACD Canon where Watson faints, and the interpretation of the characters in Sherlock, (there'll be fists flying.) And I thought it would be funny if John got a gushing head wound. No slash, sex, or profanity. Rated T for mild blood. Please read and review!


Three Years Later

January 6, 2015

* * *

**_-JW-_**

I get out of bed and run my fingers through my hair.

Another night of uncomfortable dreams behind me, I glance at the clock. 7:02. I should have plenty of time to get ready for work.

I swing my legs off the bed as I sit up and take in a deep breath, putting the dreams out my mind. I start getting ready for another day of my life. Thirty minutes and a shower later finds me sipping a cup of tea while I open up my laptop. As I open the browser to check my email, I glance up at the date. January 6. Sherlock's birthday. A shaft of pain shoots through my leg, and I rub it vigourously. After checking my empty inbox, I put on my coat, grab my cane, and head out the door and down the stairs, arriving outside on the sidewalk. I hail a taxi and get in.

"Royal London Hospital" I tell the cabby. I glance over at the other inhabitant of the cab. She was a pretty woman with intelligence glinting in her eyes, dark hair and a clear countenance. She catches my stare and we hold eye contact for an uncomfortable moment. In that moment, I realize 3 things. First, that she recognizes me from the incident 3 years ago. Second, that she's utterly disgusted with who I was made out to be in the reports. A pushover. An idiot. Third, that she's very uncomfortable with my presence. We both quickly look away. It was nothing new to me, I had spent the last the years receiving two general reactions from people. One being the one she had, and other being pity. I preferred the disgust. I hated being pitied more than anything. Although in the last year, they had started to forget. The world was moving on. She was the first person in a while to recognize me. Good memory. We arrive at my destination before hers. I pay the cabby, give a nod to the woman, and start into the building.

My job is simple and boring, but it's easy and pays well enough. I just see patients, tell them what's wrong, and give them an antibiotic or send them to a specialist. The fact that I even have this job is a miracle. For months after the incident no one would hire me. One of my ex-girlfriends felt sorry for me and pulled some strings to get me this job. I'm grateful to her for that, now. At first all I would do was sit in my new and _empty_ flat and stare into nothingness. The job helped with that. Although she was very discreet about everything she did for me. It might hurt her professional and social reputation for people to know she had helped me. I sighed as I walked up to the reception desk.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

**_-SH-_**

I watch as my friend walked into his job I know he hates. It irritated me the way gimped around pathetically with that cane of his.

Not that I was looking my best. I glanced down at my attire. Worn out shoes, shabby jeans, an old blood donor T-shirt, gloves full of holes, and a thin overcoat I found in an alley two weeks ago. I pull the rough hat on my head down over my ears in a futile attempt to ward off winter's chill. I readjust the heavy strap of the messenger bag on my shoulder. No one could guess its contents of this bag, nor the backpack I harbored on my back, by looking at my unimpressive appearance. The messenger bag held a high-tech laptop, an equally impressive phone, along with a top-of-the-line handgun and other like items. The backpack held a more mysterious collection of items- wigs, assorted clothes, and make-up. As of right now, I was wearing a long, dark, stringy wig that hung over my eyes as I hunched down to hide a few of my many inches.

It was no joke, life on the run. But today, everything would change, for better or for worse. Today I would come back. I felt so many strange emotions when I woke up two days ago (the last time I slept) and knew I would see John again. Anticipation, Fear, Grief, they all gnawed away at me under my blank expression. I send a prayer drifting up to heaven as I walk around to the back of the building where I know John will emerge at the end of the day. I hunkered in a corner, shivering, as I pull out my phone and text my brother.

**I'm coming back today.**

**SH**

His reply was almost instantaneous.

**It's about time. You could have weeks ago.**

**MH**

My reply was quick as well.

**I wanted to be absolutely sure.**

**SH**

**He's going to be blazing mad.**

**MH**

**I know.**

**SH**

* * *

**_-JW-_**

I walked out the back exit of the hospital. It been a slow, grating day, just as I had thought.

I always went out this way since the restaurant where I eat dinner is a short walk from here. I closed the door behind and paused in the alley, with only a dim floodlight to illuminate my surroundings. I had the singular feeling that there was someone else here. I scanned the alley and found it empty, and shook the feeling away with a small rattle of my head.

But as I started to move forward, a shape materialized out of a dark corner, Thin, too thin to be healthy. And tall. The shape got taller and taller until it stopped about five inches above my head. The face of what looked to be a man was shrouded by dark, dirty hair. A hobo by all appearances. And any reason he had to lie in wait for me in an alley probably did not have my best interests in mind. I moved my hand instinctively to my side where my gun was stowed, then cursed silently, remembering that it was back in my flat, sitting on a table, since weapons weren't allowed in the hospital. I began to move as quickly as I could out of the alley, or at least as quick as I could go with my bad leg and the help of my cane.

Then he spoke, effectively freezing me in my tracks.

"John."

Deep and commanding. I knew that voice. He stepped out of the shadows and flipped the hair out of his face, allowing me to see him clearly. Sherlock. Wearing an old T-shirt and a shabby old coat. He had a smug smile on his face and a casual looseness about his movement. Happy to see me, by all appearances. But I could sense a deeper tension in his body language that he couldn't hide. I began to tremble.

No. No. This was not happening. I saw him dead. This cannot be real. I must be hallucinating. He stepped closer to me, and his face turned grave. He spoke louder now, with a sort of desperation.

"John. It's me. I'm back."

His eyes, I realized, were glinting with some emotion. This was not happening. Suddenly a grey cloud passed before my eyes, and all went black, as I heard my name spoken one last time, this time with alarm and urgency.

"_JOHN_!"

* * *

**_-SH-_**

I had anticipated many different reactions that John would have in this moment over the last 3 years. This was entirely unexpected. When I stepped out of the shadows and moved the hair out of my eyes, his face became a mask of shock. Despite my smile, meant to be comforting, he was utterly terrified. This much did not startle me. When I stepped in his direction, I began to tell him the speech I'd rehearsed countless times in my mind. He just stumbled backwards toward the door.

Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he crumpled like a doll.

As he went down his head clipped the metal door handle, opening a gash. I leap forward, crying his name. But he's already unconscious. I quickly take stock of the situation, looking him over swiftly. The head wound was bleeding heavily, though it probably wasn't serious. I opened his eyelids saw instantly that his pupils were dilated. His breathing became rapid and shallow. John was going into shock. I lost no time. I ripped a big piece off my shirt and wrapped it around his head as a makeshift bandage. Then I removed my coat and draped it over his helpless form, knowing the cold and shock would steal warmth from his body. That done, I throw open the door and yell for help. I could hear a murmur rising from John's lips- something about blood.

Guilt strikes me as I straighten, even though I know it's not really any doing of mine. Then I feel annoyance take its place.

I can't believe John had the nerve to faint, and not only that, but manage to injure himself. Now I was going to be truly freezing, without my coat and half my shirt. As I gather all my things I hear footsteps approach the open door. I glance at John's prone body. He should be in good hands. I send up another prayer as I run out into the night.

* * *

**_-JW-_**

When I came to myself I was being rushed on a gurney to somewhere. I tried to ask one of the people pushing me along what had happened. He just shushed me. It was a long time until anybody would talk to me. It was when another doctor came in and gave me a last look-over that I started getting answers.

"We found you lying outside the building, unconscious and suffering from a head wound. You had a bandage on your head and a coat over you. Whoever did that was probably the one who called for help. A Good Samaritan."

So then it really happened. It wasn't a dream or hallucination. Unless I was hallucinating, passed out, and someone else came along and found me.

"Were you attacked?"

I was pretty sure that whether I had been hallucinating or not, it was best not to share what I had seen. And claiming I had been attacked would backfire, not to mention that it was a complete lie. Well, not entirely, I thought with a ripple of grim amusement. I thought out my words carefully before speaking.

"No. I was standing there, and then all of a sudden my vision went grey, then it turned black," I said with all the innocence and perplexity I could muster.

"Do you have a history of epilepsy or seizures of any kind?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Hmm," he said, his face ponderous. "I suppose we'll just keep an eye on you then."

He then proceeded to give resting and dressing instructions, even though I knew what he would say before he said it. Then he walked me down and sent me home in a taxi. Once I was sitting in the empty cab, alone with my thoughts, I wondered what was happening.

When I saw his face, it was like I had been struck by lightning. If that had been Sherlock, I was going to beat the stuffing out of him for thoroughly terrifying me. _What an idiot!_ If you're going to come back from the dead, you don't just pop up out of nowhere and and scare the the _light of day_ out people. But then, that was Sherlock, always over-dramatic. Now I had him to thank for a head wound, a huge medical bill, a splitting headache, and looking ridiculous with this massive bandage on my head. The moron. But if there was any way, somehow, that I had indeed seen my friend in the flesh, there was one person who would know. I pulled out my phone and sent a text.

**My flat. We need to talk.**

Mycroft responded quickly, as always.

**I thought you might want to see me.**

**MH**

When I walked into my flat Mycroft was there, sitting smugly on the couch. I didn't play around.

"How is it that I saw your dead brother outside my work today?"

"Things aren't always as they seem," he answered cryptically.

"Answers. _Now_."

"I'm not the best person for that. You really do look pathetic with that big bandage around your head, limping around all day on your cane. Good day."

"_Mycroft_!"

He paid no mind to my demands or entreaties or threats as he got up, opened the door, and walked out. I collapsed on the couch, thoroughly flummoxed, not to mention utterly exhausted. I recalled the last words Sherlock had spoken to me, face-to-face. I spoke them aloud, meaning every word, even though I thought it was stupid when he said it, at the time.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

Then, out of nowhere (or more accurately, the hallway) there was a reply. My own words, I noted dully.

"Wrong. Friends protect people."

I leaped up, grabbing my gun off the side table. Sherlock Holmes stepped up to me, not five feet away. We looked at each other for what felt like an eternity as I pointed my gun at him for some stupid reason. Me, with bewilderment and incredulity; he, with an out-of-character tender and apologetic expression. I felt all the anger, the desperation, the grief and anguish I had suffered welling up inside me, crushing me like a dam about to break. He started to speak.

"John, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't know-"

That was when I hit him with a right cross, right on the nose. The dam broke loose.

"You son of the _devil_!", I bellowed at him. He just stood there, imperturbable. It enraged me even more. I punched his face again, harder this time.

"You were _**DEAD**_! Your blood was on the pavement!" I screamed a wordless cry of rage and I hit him again.

"I stood at your _grave_! Your name was on the _tombstone_! You were... _dead_..."

I felt my knees buckle and I fell back to the floor, landing heavily on my seat. He still stood there, with a black eye, busted lip, and streaming nose. I could see the emotion written on his face that was usually so platonic. Grief.

I whimpered quietly, "Three years..." as I tried to punch his leg from where I sat.

His hand darted down and cradled my fist as he moved down and crouched in front of me. We looked at each other. Then he wrapped his long arms around me. Tears streamed down my face and my breathing became ragged and harsh as he whispered, "I'm so sorry John. I'm home."

* * *

**_-SH-_**

When I walked out of the hallway and saw John standing there, pointing his gun at me for some reason neither he nor I could understand, I could see in his face he was no longer in denial. Well, that's step one. As we gazed at each other, affection suddenly smothered me. I'm sure if this is pleasing or not. His face twisted in rage, and since I had already known he would be positively mad with anger, it didn't shock me. I started to try and begin somewhere- an apology, explanation, anything- when he took he slightly off guard with a shattering fist, square on my nose.

As he screamed at me and punched me, I felt tears beginning to sting my eyes. Not from the pain in my face, but my heart. I didn't like seeing John like this.

I couldn't bear it.

I hated the fact that I had to do this to him, that he had felt like this for so long. When he finally finished and sank back on his haunches, I knew he had forgiven me. I crouched down in front of him and, surprising myself, gathered him into an embrace; let him cry. I wanted nothing more than the take away all the pain, to tell him how sorry I was. The many tears streaming down his face made me tighten my arms as I whispered, overcome with so many emotions.

"I'm so sorry John. I'm home."


End file.
